The Sky That Betrayed Us

By Sharda Gupta

The morning was ordinary—

milk boiling in pans,

children tying shoelaces with dreams still half-awake.

The city yawned, unaware

that the sky was planning

a funeral.

The flight lifted

like a promise,

a silver bird with hearts strapped in—

some texting "boarding now,"

some holding prayer beads.

No one knew

the sky would open its jaws

like a god gone mad.

I read their names in the news—

a couple returning from a wedding,

a mother flying for her daughter’s surgery,

a boy who loved planes

but never dreamed of dying inside one.

They say

the engines failed.

They say

weather turned rogue.

They say

black boxes will tell the truth.

But what do boxes know

of the girl who waited at Arrivals

holding marigolds and a placard that said “Papa”?

I heard that the wreckage scattered

near a school,

and a child drew a plane

with broken wings

on her notebook that night.

I do not know these people,

but my womb ached

as if I had lost

my own.

Isn’t that what grief is?

A stranger’s death

pulling apart your ribs

like it belonged to you?

They will build reports,

announce compensation,

blame wind or metal or man.

But who will console

the chai vendor at the terminal

who still waits for familiar footsteps?

Somewhere,

a ringtone still rings

inside a crushed suitcase,

and no one picks up.

By Sharda Gupta